You know how people say words can't hurt you? Wrong. So, fucking, wrong. Words can mentally fuck you up. They hurt, a lot. I have scars to prove it. And I'm so fucking done with life. People joke around, they talk about scars, depression, suicide so casually. It's wrong, alright? You can't joke about that stuff. My friends joked about it, and they never knew I wanted to die. I won't leave a note when I die. My friends aren't my friends, they didn't notice the scars, the tears. They won't dare stand at my funeral, crying. They won't even notice I'm gone. As I take the pills from my cabinet, I think back to when things were okay. When me and my best friend, Jinx, when on vacation together. When me, mum, and dad went on picnics together every Saturday. Then I think about now. My best friend, Jinx, has changed. She doesn't care about our friendship. All she cared about now was what she wore, or how many boys she can flirt with in one night. That's what almost all my friends cared about. There wasn't anything left for me. I swallow the pills.